by Sonya Lalli
I pushed through the front door of the diner, and saw Shay, Julien, and Asher sitting in our usual booth at the far corner, right beneath the neon Hollywood sign. Shay and Julien were both in powder blue scrubs, hoodies open over them. Asher was wearing his leather jacket again, a gray T-shirt underneath, the same color as his eyes.
I could feel my heart beating in my stomach.
Did he still think about New Year’s Eve, too? Did he think about me at all? So much had happened since. In a way that night—that kiss—felt so far away, so surreal, I often wondered if it’d even happened.
I started to panic, and just as I was about to turn around, Asher saw me. I took a deep breath and kept walking.
Julien looked up first and, a moment later, Shay. She followed his gaze to the side, and looked up at me like she was waking up from a dream. I blinked, and a moment later, she snapped her head back toward Julien.
“I knew you didn’t want to eat here.”
“Wait,” I said, dumbfounded. “She didn’t know I was coming?”
Julien smiled at us sheepishly, and then he and Asher scooted out of the booth.
“I’m not staying.”
“Me neither,” said Shay.
“Babe. Yes, you are.”
“Her babe—or me babe,” said Shay, cuffing Julien on the arm. “Traitor.”
“You’re the traitor,” I mumbled, just as I felt Asher’s hands on my shoulder blades. His peppery soap smell clung to me as he gently guided me into the booth.
“Hey, Raina,” he said without looking at me.
“Hey . . .”
“Julien, can you please tell her I’m not speaking to her?” I heard Shay say.
“Shay, she’s right there. You need to talk to her.”
“And since when do you tell me what to do?”
“Since now.” Julien drummed the table with both of his palms. “You both are talking. Right now. This is enough.”
Julien brushed a flyaway hair from Shay’s forehead, and when she slapped his hand away, he laughed. “We’re going to be outside guarding the door, so don’t even think about leaving.” He took a step backward, Asher in stride, and said, “That means you, too, Raina.”
After they’d gone, Shay wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she rolled her eyes, and then rolled her head back against the seat. She stuffed a french fry into her mouth, chewed it purposefully, and still, she wouldn’t look at me.
“Child,” I muttered.
She looked up, stuck her tongue out, and took out her phone.
“Typical Shay.”
Another moment passed by, and then she set down her phone, dug into her purse, and retrieved a copy of White Teeth. My copy of White Teeth. She roughly flipped through the pages and lifted up the book so it blocked her face.
I slid her plate toward me—three-quarters of a chicken sandwich, a fistful of fries—and then reached to the side for a bottle of mustard and noisily opened the lid. She moved the book down an inch. I smiled as I slowly flipped over the bottle and then squeezed it as hard as I could, yellow mustard in thick swirls pooling over the entire plate.
Shay hated mustard.
“What the hell?” She tossed the book to the side. “I was eating that.”
“I’m sorry.” I stuffed three fries into my mouth. “Did you just speak to me?”
“You’re such a child.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I am the child.”
“A child. And a liar.” She reached for the plate, and I swatted her hand away. “And a brat—”
“Shay.” I pulled the plate back, so hard that her butt rose off the seat. “Let go!”
“You let go!” She tugged on it, and then I tugged back, and just then, the plate flipped over and everything toppled onto the table in a big angry flop. “Look what you did!” cried Shay.
“Me?”
“Yes—you.” Her voice was hoarse, and as we used paper-thin napkins to scoop the mashed fries back onto the plate, I looked up at her and saw that she was crying. Thick tears rolling down her cheeks. I handed her a napkin, and she roughly wiped her face.
After a moment, she stopped crying. She balled the napkin up in her palms, and then tossed it at me. It ricocheted off my shoulder and dropped into my lap. I picked it up, and then threw it back at her, hitting her square in the nose.
She smiled, and then a moment later, the happy expression on her face disappeared.
What had happened to us?
A waitress came by and glared at both of us as she grabbed the dirty plate, and then again we were left in silence. The diner was mostly empty, a few quiet tables closer to the front with children and grandparents, teenagers on day-dates. A speaker above us was playing the easy listening radio station, the tune and lyrics barely audible, but entirely familiar.
Shay stared at her hands, and I knew she was working up the courage to apologize. That face—sheepish, red, and sullen—I’d seen it a hundred times; Shay facing up to her mistakes, Shay acknowledging when she was wrong and trying to make amends.
But this time, if I were honest with myself, was it really her fault?
Why did it feel so awful that my best friend fell in love before me? Even after she started dating Julien, hadn’t Shay always been there for me? Hadn’t she always supported me whenever Mom came home, and when Nana died? And when Dev and I ended, how many times had she shown up in the middle of the night with half a caramel cheesecake and a bag of popcorn, determined to cheer me up? Belted out Coldplay until my sobs turned to laughter and the neighbors complained?
And what had I done for her?
I’d been too busy making sure my calendar matched Dev’s to invite her to visit me in London. I’d pushed her away whenever she tried to help. I’d distanced myself as her wedding approached, as her residency drew to a close: whenever her life went right and, seemingly, mine went wrong. I’d lied to her, abandoned her when she needed me.
It was my fault: The fight. The lie that ballooned with each day that passed. It was all my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally.
Shay looked at me, a surprised look on her face. Her smile reappeared, and then she shrugged. “I’m sorry, too.”
“No, really, I’m sorry—”
“I was such a bitch to you.”
“What I said was horrible, too, Shay.”
“I was just so angry, you know? I was angry, and I just didn’t—I don’t—understand what’s going on, why you’re lying to everyone—”
“It’s okay, Shay.” I paused, and took a deep breath. “And I guess . . . I just couldn’t believe you’re getting married.”
I looked away, embarrassed by the blunt and bitter truth: I couldn’t believe Shay was getting married, and I couldn’t believe it wasn’t me.
Shay reached across the table and found my hand. “It’s okay.”
I blinked, trying to force away the tears, and she squeezed my hand until I looked her in the eye.
“Are you ready to tell me the truth now?”
Wasn’t this why I came? Wasn’t I ready?
“What can be so bad, Raina, that you’re lying to everyone about this?”
* * *
I told her. Over two pieces of fresh pecan pie and cups of coffee, the whole story came out. I told her how Dev was back in my life—sort of—and I still didn’t know what to do or what it meant. I told her about Nani—the dates, the pressure, the slip-of-the-tongue lie—and how annoyingly supportive she was being. I told her about Depesh, that I’d been talking to or texting him almost every day. How we’d talk about his feelings of isolation and disappointment, of having to lie about who he was to everyone he knew.
I told her about the situation snowballing, how I had no idea how to fix this without hurting him, without hurting Nani, and that I needed her help; I needed my best friend’s
help.
When I finally stopped talking, I was close to tears. Shay hadn’t said a word the whole time, her face expressionless.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well”—she paused, pressed her lips together—“truth is, Raina, I don’t know what the hell we are going to do.”
Despite everything, I smiled. We. Shay and I were back.
“Jesus, don’t cry,” she said. She stood up from the booth, walked around the table, and sat down next to me. She wrapped an arm tightly around my shoulder, and I let my head fall onto hers. I could smell her shampoo, her soothing tang of sweat and hospital scrubs.
“You okay?”
I shook my head. “Seriously, what am I going to do?”
Abruptly, she pushed me off her, and then angled her body to face me on the seat.
“You can’t go on pretending forever, but we’re not going to tell anyone until we’ve figured out how to handle it,” Shay said a moment later. “At some point, this is all going to come out. You’re going to have to tell Depesh and your nani. We’re just delaying the inevitable.”
I looked up at her and nodded. I knew that, too.
“And your nani . . .” Shay sipped her coffee, and then set it back down. “She’ll be okay, I think. She’s resilient. Maybe we should tell your nani now. It would be hard, but she’ll understand, won’t she? She’d keep the secret until the time is right?”
I’d been asking myself those questions for weeks, and I still didn’t have a clear answer.
“When is the right time though, Shay?”
“Down the road, after Depesh comes out? After he’s more—I don’t know—comfortable with himself?” Shay sighed, and wrapped her hand around her coffee cup. “At some point—whenever that is, whenever you tell him the truth—you’re going to hurt him, and he may never trust you again. There’s no way around that.”
I’d racked my brain so many times, conjured up a million scenarios where he, my nani, didn’t get hurt; but there weren’t any.
“Everyone thinks I’m gay,” I blurted. “How is it going to be okay? Now, how is anyone ever going to look at Nani the same after the truth comes out?” I laughed, despite myself. “How is she going to look at me after this? I’ve seen her browser history. You know, she’s been so supportive, I think she might actually want me to marry a woman? Have children with a woman? I don’t know how I let it get this far.”
“You’d do anything for her, Raina. Everyone knows that.” Shay shrugged. “And she’d do anything for you, even accept—”
“That her granddaughter isn’t actually a lesbian?”
“Just a bit of a liar,” said Shay, rolling her head backward onto the booth. “Shit, I should really go.”
“Already?”
Shay nodded. “I have to train the new residents, and then go help Ma with—I don’t know—something.”
“How are the wedding plans?”
Shay groaned. “She has been such a pain. The three of us brought home eleven suitcases from India. Eleven. Can you believe it?” She reached for her coffee cup. It was empty, and she slammed it back down on the table. “I don’t even know what’s in the stupid things. It’s turning into such a spectacle—ugh—and to think, Julien and his family wanted a tiny church wedding.”
“And what did you want?”
She shrugged, and then in the clearest of voices, said, “I just wanted him.”
I turned around in the booth and glanced out the front window. Julien and Asher were still standing on the sidewalk just outside, arms crossed, talking to each other. I looked back at Shay.
“Do they know I’m . . .”
Shay smiled. “Julien thinks whatever Ma has been telling him. I haven’t said anything about this; that bozo can’t keep his mouth shut. Did you know they have dinner together when I’m working late?”
“I did know, actually.”
“And Asher—well, he thinks it was a damn good kiss for a lesbian—”
“You know about that?”
“Of course I know.” She glanced at her watch, and then reached across the table for her purse. “But I have to go back to work. And you’re going to call me tonight and tell me what the hell has happened between you two, okay?”
“Promise.”
She stood up, fumbling with her coat and scarf. When she was all wrapped up, I got out of the booth and stood beside her. She came up to my nose.
“Shay”—I paused, struggling to find the words—“all this time, you never told anyone I was lying? Not Auntie Sarla, not Julien or Asher? . . . Why?”
“I was mad,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But I’m still your best friend. I was never not going to cover your ass.”
NINETEEN
After she disappeared from the diner, I took my time finishing my pie. When I finally left, I saw Asher standing across the road propped against a lamppost, waiting for me. For some reason, I wasn’t surprised he was still there. I put on my sunglasses and, through their shelter, took in his broad, shadowy physique. The strong line of his jaw, upturned corners of his mouth. He smiled as I crossed the road toward him, and I found myself smiling back.
We wandered aimlessly, wrestling our way through the downtown sidewalks. It was one of those rare winter days that almost felt like spring, and the whole city felt alive; everyone seemed to be outdoors, their winter parkas tied hastily around their waists, shopping or sporting bags flung over one shoulder.
It wasn’t until we’d walked past my office building that I realized that some twenty floors above, Bill and Zoey were probably waiting for me; that I’d told him I’d come in and help with the next report. I looked behind me as the skyscrapers fell away and followed Asher toward the lake, resolving not to think about it. Resolving, for now, not to care.
Cherry Beach was spotted with snow, and as we walked westward along the lake, a breeze picked up and I shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked. “Do you want my coat?”
I shook my head. He took off his sunglasses and squinted at me for a moment, and then, smiling, he put them back on.
“Have you and Shaylee made up?”
I nodded.
“In New York, she didn’t take your news well, I’m guessing.”
I didn’t say anything, timed my footsteps with his.
“People don’t always understand what’s not right in front of them.” Asher’s feet kicked sand up onto mine. “Not right away, at least. And how much can we really blame people for not knowing better? But then—when they do know better—I think we can blame them for not trying.”
I swallowed loudly. Asher thought I was gay; he thought the fight was about me being gay.
“I think she’s trying.” I felt him looking at me, and after a moment, he continued. “I haven’t told you about my sister, Anna, have I?”
I kicked a loose rock. “Have you?”
“About the time she swallowed everything in the bathroom cabinet and had to have her stomach pumped?”
“Asher, that’s horrible.”
“It was. She’s okay now—thank God—but at the time, Anna was just a kid who needed help.” He shrugged. “She’s gay, and she didn’t know how to deal with it—not even in a progressive family like ours. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for someone growing up someplace less . . . tolerant.”
He looked over at me expectantly, and my stomach felt as if it might tear in two.
Asher’s sister was gay?
“Anyway, Anna’s happily married now,” he said after a moment. “Jess is great. They have two kids in the suburbs. Piano lessons, bake sales, the whole deal. But it just terrifies me to think how easily none of that could have happened. Actually”—he glanced at me—“it’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a teacher. Kids should be happy, you know? I never want to see what happened to Anna happen to anyone else.�
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I nodded, stared furiously at my shoes as we toed our way across the sand. Asher’s sister was gay, and like Depesh, it had been a struggle for her to accept it. I was making light of that. I was making a mockery of everything.
Would Asher understand? I wanted to tell him the truth, too. I barely knew him, but I already sensed that I could trust him, that despite everything he would understand. We stopped at a part of the sandbar that jutted out into the lake; a small peninsula of granulated rock and glass, and I stared across the water.
“I heard you’re done with teacher training?”
“Yep. I’ve got a full-time position at your old high school. I’m teaching history, English, politics—”
“Basketball?”
He grinned. “Of course.”
My stomach tightened. “Asher, look”—I breathed out—“I need to talk to you about something.”
“If it’s all the same to you”—he glanced away—“I’d rather not.”
“But—”
“In New York, I”—he hesitated—“I got carried away. That’s all.”
Was that all?
“It’s all behind us, for better or for worse. I’ve thought about you a lot since New York. And in hindsight it really does make sense.”
“What does?” I whispered.
“Maybe it’s growing up with Anna, or traveling and meeting so many other—I guess you could say—lost souls. You have that same look. Like you feel completely inadequate despite your accomplishments. Like you’re struggling to fit in, searching for something else, and—”
He paused, looked me straight in the eye, and I knew this was my chance to tell him the truth. Tell him that I had lied, and dug myself into a hole so deep that I needed help getting out. That I was searching for something else—and even though I wasn’t quite sure what it was, or how my life might ever make sense—that maybe, around him, it didn’t need to make sense.
He was looking at me, his breathing deep, but I didn’t know what to say—or how to say it. His gaze was too heavy. His longing—I felt it—was too much. The moment passed, and I didn’t say anything.